


Lessons in Friendship 3 - Setback

by TheGracefulBlueCat



Series: Lessons in Friendship [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Caring Sherlock, Clueless Sherlock, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Gen, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock is driving, Trust Issues, john is a bit angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGracefulBlueCat/pseuds/TheGracefulBlueCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Directly after of HoB, driving home.<br/>Sherlock regretting his plan to use John as a labrat after he really understands how bad an idea it was.<br/>John's PTSD is having a revival. No First Person POV but almost entirely form Sherlock's side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heading Home

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made. 
> 
> This was written because John's PTSD was kind of affecting me since I suffer PTSD myself…  
> Many thanks to my betareader Graveofthefireflies!  
> 

 

 

They were driving back home from Baskerville. The weather was good, nice, sunny. Sherlock had asked John to take the first turn to drive. He was still distracted with thoughts about the case and the scientist's suicide… and with the things John had told him in the morning, about the test in the lab and how badly it had affected him. Well, told was a bit too kind. He had yelled at him when he had found out that Sherlock was the one who locked him in the lab… And he was angry that Sherlock had tried to drug him. Though… in the end the drug had been in John's system, but it wasn't Sherlock's fault it got there, though he had without any doubt tried… the idea that he had so recklessly used John as a test subject was the harm… that he had intentionally did this to someone he called a friend… that's what John had said because in the beginning he hadn't understood John's anger… But now, that he thought about it… John had probably every right to be angry… and he also had the right to be angry at him with what he had said in the pub, too. Twice the right.  
He was so stupid! John hadn't said it out loud but Sherlock understood this was a major setback in their friendship. Loss of trust. Also, John hadn't said anything about PTSD, but now Sherlock saw the connection and that he might have reopened a wound that John had worked so hard to help heal. He hadn't seen John show any hint of panic for a long time, but that didn't mean he didn't suffer from panic attacks without him noticing.  
He had upgraded himself about PTSD a few months ago after witnessing a light panic attack. He read that coping with it was like walking on an edge - as one patient described it. There was always the possibility to stumble into a trigger, to suffer a setback or the symtoms coming back. Many patients never get rid of their PTSD, they'd suffer from it for the rest of their lives, just learned to live with it and how to cope.  
People affected by the disorder were in a constant state of alarm, which in a long term increased their risk of physical illness and suicide. The mind more or less indirectly killing the body. So the question was just how far away from the edge one was walking and how to prevent stumbling… and Sherlock had just not only put rather large stones in John's way but also shoved him. He asked himself how he could have forgotten John's PTSD, or hadn't he? Had he been just reckless enough to ignore it? Well, if he had, he didn't deserve John's friendship.

John seemed to be so normal, fine, the symthoms seldom reached the suface, his limp was gone, maybe that had made Sherlock think he was over the PTSD.

Lestrade had yelled at him, too, as he had heard about what 'test' Sherlock had performed, his own experience with the gas still vivid. Gladly John had been in the shower and hadn't seen it.

Sherlock was ashamed now, he had completely failed his friend… he wasn't used to feeling shame. It felt ugly, yellow-green and nasty - he had very early in his life realized he didn't like to feel shame and guilt, and the best way not to be confronted with them was simple: just don't do anything that you might regret later, always consider if what you are about to do might make you ashamed afterwards, always think it through… and don't misjudge. The only way to do this: observe acurately!

But now it had happened, and he didn't know how to deal with it… and the damage was to something that was important to him: John's trust…

He was sorry, too - also not a common feeling for him. He realized all those came with caring. Caring was difficult, loads of new configurations and protocols with so many variables… and all specific to one individual, another person's set totally different in over seventy-eight percent… it was huge.

He was still staring out of the window, the landscape rushing by.

John was driving a bit faster than allowed. Hurrying home or to get out of the situation? Sherlock needed to fix this… or at least start to work on fixing it. He could feel the problem physically between them. The inside of the car felt misted with the hurt oozing out of John. He could feel it not only in the air, but also on his skin and temples, a thick olive-coloured, almost slightly hurting pressure with molten sparks of angry red in it.

"John?"

"Mm.." Obviously not really interested in talking.

"John, I am sorry…" He started clumsy while staring ahead, not really able to look at the doctor, especially now that he felt John's eyebrows rise and his gaze shift towards him, resting on his face. But he said nothing.

"It was stupid. Forgive me… I didn't think." Sherlock continued.

John's eyes returned to the road and Sherlock could feel his astonishment about hearing an apology. Though he didn't say anything, he just drove, a bit slower than before maybe. Sherlock wondered if he was waiting for further elaboration, but when he gave John a small sideways look his face looked exhausted and sad… and empty. He hesitated for a moment wondering if he should say more, saying too much was clumsy he had learned when he tried to say sorry yesterday for his episode at the pub, and distracting the message.

Sherlock wished John would yell at him, confront him with his anger and rage and let it out. He was angry with himself… and he deserved it. John's silent disapointment and hurt was far worse than being screamed at.

They drove in silence, Sherlock frantically thinking about how to make up for his mistake in a tactfull and helping way.

"I'll stop at the next station for a lunch break." John informed, knowing he wouldn't get anything to eat if he didn't insisted on it.

They stopped half an hour later. John ate some sandwiches and they had coffee. Their small talk was leaden and when they returned to the car Sherlock offered to drive.  
So they went on, Sherlock driving and John dozing in the passenger seat.

 

 


	2. Physical effects

 

When John woke an hour later with a slight start Sherlock suspected he had a bad dream. Some more smalltalk followed.

They exchanged their thoughts about the tricks that had been done to Henry to scare him and madden him… and about Henry's house with a lot of glass. In the middle of this John suddenly asked Sherlock to pull over.

"Why? You need the loo?" Sherlock tried a bit of humor while looking for a proper place to stop.

"Please, Sherlock… now!" John urged.

"What is it?" Sherlock slowed the car, though still looking for a wider part of the empty street.

"Would you just stop… NOW!" John was almost yelling, clearly in distress.

Sherlock contemplated him… sweating, pale, panting, stressed… panic attack? He hurried and stopped. The car was still slightly moving when John threw open the door and jumped out.

"Stay in the car!" He ordered, tone military-like.

Sherlock looked after him, puzzled. Was he gonna take a leak? The only reason why he might want privacy.

John headed towards a tree that was several meters ahead. Sherlock watched him closely… he frowned when he saw John was slightly limping.

When the doctor swayed slightly Sherlock jumped out of the car, following him. John leaned sideways against the tree, back to the road and the car and before Sherlock could reach him sagged down next to it.

When Sherlock finally reached him John was sitting sunken against the tree, sh rounded him and saw that he was staring blindly ahead.

"John?" Sherlock stopped three feet away and squatted down in front of him.

"Go away, Sherlock. Just give me a minute of privacy, could you do _that_ at least? I know you don't have any respect or care to share, so that can't be too difficult, just ignore me." John's tone way icy and tense and he tried to turn away from him. Then he suddenly turned over and threw up into the grass.

What was happening?… Food poisoning? Unlikely, too soon….

Upset stomach because of his driving?… No, it wasn't that bad.

Delayed reaction to the gas?… None of the listed side effects had said vomitting, though there were several cases of nausea…

Panic attack?… During the few occasions Sherlock had seen John suffer from panic, John had never thrown up…

Memories? Stress? Likely. Silent observation mode, nearby, he decided, better not damage anything more today.

Sherlock turned around and walked back to the car, all the time closely listening for more severe things than just the wretching. He fetched some tissues, a small bottle of water, and John's medical bag.

When he hurried back John was dry heaving.

Luckily the attack stopped a few moments later. Sherlock held out the tissues, then the open water bottle. John needed almost a minute to realize what was happening around him but then took them.

"Thanks." John washed his mouth with the water.

"You want to take any medication?" Sherlock opened the bag between them. John fetched a dropper bottles out of it… and let several drops fall into the open and almost empty water bottle, his hands were shaking. Sherlock had expected it was some stuff for nausea but now he could read the label: it was an anti anxiety drug, a fast working one.

John sipped the water slowly, not speaking a single word. Sherlock took the vial and stored it back into the bag.

Panic attack then… add vomitting to possible reactions of this kind of attack/stress in John's aftermath-occuring-things-list.

John leaned against the tree with his back now, eyes closed, slightly trembling, and as if waiting… maybe he was concentrating on keeping the liquid down…?

What had caused the attack? Sherlock was at a loss how to care for or comfort the other man. He knew asking John to tell him what was causing this was not the best idea. John might be triggered again when telling him about it… or get sick again, and he needed to keep the drug down.

He went back to the car and fetched a blanket that was in the back of the car for emergencies.

Returning to John he urged him to lean forward and wrapped the thing around his shoulders, John was only wearing his shirt and must be cold.

The doctor followed his guiding movements without opening his eyes or having any second thoughts.

What now?… maybe just wait for him to do what he knows would be best… just be present… So Sherlock sat down next to him, dragging his knees up and wrapped his arms around them in one of his preferred sitting positions, taking care that his shoulder was in light contact with John's, for gathering information (like when he might have stopped trembling) and for… comfort? If John noticed he didn't react.

 

They sat there about half an hour, unmoving, until John started to sag sideways, but jerked back to full awakeness.

"Come, on, let's get you to the car…" Sherlock suggested.

Might be the best option to drive straight home and _not_ take the train for the second part of the journey. Would last a lot longer, but John needed privacy now… and sleep, maybe?  
John started to get up and Sherlock helped, John letting him help, he asserted a bit eased.

They returned to the car, Sherlock convincing John to lay down in the back, returning to the tree to fetch their belongings after John was as comfortable as possible.

He set a mental reminder in form of a halfway blocked gas pedal to make him drive slow and careful on the upcoming trip. He knew driving like this was forbidden but this was necessary. He would wake John before they reached more busy streets.

John seemed to be asleep when he came back and he started the engine, or maybe he had retreated into his version of a mind palace or resting place or was just shutting out the world for a bit.

 


	3. Talking

 

 

Two hours later, when they had just passed Slough, John stirred. Soon he sat up to wake properly and rubbed his face. Sherlock watched him in the rear view mirror.

"Feel better?" He asked carefully.

"Hmm…" The sound carrying a yes, Sherlock observed.

"You want me to stop so you can sit at the front?"

"No, I want to be rediculous and try to climb there while you drive."

Was it a joke? The tone wasn't sarcastic and in fact for a small person like John it might be possible to do this in this car, the land rover was spacious. He still tried to figure it out when John started to do exactly that: try to climb to the front. He was a bit uncoordinated but made it finally.

Sherlock grinned. Was this a gentle move towards forgiveness? John knew this was Sherlock's kind of humor, to do things just because you wanted to know if you could… or because it would irritate your surroundings and it was fun watching those watching their thoughts pass their faces in reaction, like photographing a group of people that were all photographing the same thing.

Sherlock grinned, John chuckled, dragging his leg into the small space unter the compartment.

"Daily exercise, doctor?"

"Something like that."

They drove in silence for another few minutes.

"You want to know what happened…" It was a statement, not a question.

"Please…" Sherlock answered honestly, the question must have been written all over his face. He was proud most people weren't able to read him, it was suiting his job. But John was getting better with it every day.

"I had a flashback to Henry putting the gun in his mouth… Which mingled with a memory of a young soldier doing exactly the same… but _he_ pulled the trigger… couldn't live with his memories of the war. He wasn't dead immediately. Took some minutes… died in my arms." John's voice broke.

Heavy silence settled in the car and Sherlock wondered how often John had been tempted to do the same thing to himself and how many suicides he had whitnessed in his time as an army doctor. He wanted to know both answers, but supressed the question. Don't trigger him! Let him talk if he wants to.

John fetched another bottle of water and sipped carefully.

"It's okay… ask, I realize if we had talked about my PTSD more you might have understood how bad an idea it was to use me as a test subject. You thought it was just a diagnosis and and not really something that was affecting me? …'cause you were never really confronted with it? Maybe partly because I hide it and partly because you weren't interested and ignored it? I didn't want to talk about it because I knew you would use the information to look down on me."

"I _do not_ look down on you…"

"No? So why do you constantly bug me about being dumb and take me for granted and treat me like an assistant for the dirty work? You know this shows perfectly how you look down on me. You use me when you need me and ignore me when I have served the purpose. My needs are completely irrelevant to you. So if it's going to change anything to talk things through with I am all for it, lets do it.…" There was no agression in John's voice, only sadness.

"Have you witnessed many suicides?" Sherlock tried to get back to the original theme.

"I have witnessed three so far. I have treated the aftermath of more than I dare to count."

"Did you…" Sherlock started but then decided this question might be over the line… and changed the course. "Did you have many flashbacks in the past years?"

"About twelve since I moved in with you. They became less frequent in the past year… "

"What's it like?" Sherlock hoped his interview-like style of conversation was not too firm but helping.

John burrowed his face in his hands, blowing breath out slowly.

"It's like somebody threw you right back into a traumatizing memory. Reliving it as if you were there again, with all the input: smells, pains, threats to your life, tastes, sounds, adrenaline rush, all the physical feelings, and… just bloody _everything_. It feels as real as being there, not at all like usual memories feel. I'm not really able to realise it is a memory… it's like dreaming, you usually are not aware that you are dreaming. Sometimes - like in a dream - there is a distant thought like 'that can't happen' or 'physics are not like this'… A small idea of the fact that this has happened before and therefore can't happen again is sometimes present, but since your senses tell you otherwise it is very hard to fight your way back to reality. Sometimes, in another variation, it's like a black-out. I am aware where I am but without realizing it I have stared at a wall for an hour and don't know what really happened. It's a bit like a time-warp, my thoughts go circles but are lost fast… making me feel numb. This 'zoning-out' happens more often then the flashbacks… It feels a bit like the state between waking and sleep, when the body's input is signififantly reduced, time passes in a rush and I feel overloaded by simple, bad thoughts."

"What would be the best course of action if you were 'zoned-out'?" Sherlock asked. John looked up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Being dragged into something good."

"And how to drag you?"

John hesitated. "I don't know… Are you asking me what _you_ can do? Really, Sherlock?…" John stared at him, maybe trying to find out if this might be a joke and if he'd regret it.

"I am asking the doctor for first aid instructions in this particular kind of… event, yes…" Sherlock hissed uneasy.

John raised his eyebrows again, a hint of surprise on his face.

"To be honest, it's difficult. Create a safe environment… I don't know… I try positve sensory input, like a nice cup of tea, something that smells or tastes good, any form of stimuli I associate with nice things… my therapist told me to, but to be honest, it's helping only a tiny bit. And I try to remove the triggering factor… which is not that easy, because often I don't even know what it was… I mean it's not always as obvious as the memory of Henry with the gun… and evade memories is not that simple at all…"

"What happens if you stay 'zoned' longer?"

"Stress accumulates, might start drifting, loose awareness of my surroundings, be pathetic in public, get anxiety attacks… It also affects my body, makes my leg hurt, my stomache rebells, I get headaches, I get dizzy and my eyesight gets blurred… But those things might also happen spontaneously without the semi-black-out if I get stressed in the right way… It's the same in the aftermath of a flashback."

"Why do you think it's pathetic?"

"Because it bloody _is_ pathetic! You of all people, who is not even able to admit he is hurt somewhere or needs help… God, can you imagine how it feels like to be stared at by strangers and you see in their eyes that they think you might be better locked away… or as if you were a junkie and that they fear you might try to kidnap their kids to sell them for drugs?… or what is the worst: pity… you know, not like 'I feel with you' - that would acutally be nice, but like that disgusting 'Poor bastard'-stuff."

"This Mental illness is a sicknesses like any other, you get hurt, you need to heal, you can do things to get better yourself and you can disturb healing…" Sherlock tried to elaborate… maybe even say something positive... or signal he understood, he was not sure he did though.

"Tough luck… You know how many people still think mental illnesses are a kind of personal failure? You often are considered being to weak to pull yourself together or face life… or too lazy to go to work… it feels like the majority of society does that, some days… You can see how society thinks when you have suffered a panic attack in the public once… You get five lines like 'Get a grip, stop drinking.'… 'Get a job.' …'Piss off, tramp'… 'Serves you right, junkie'… until one person tries to help… the other twenty just ignore your distress or you at all… Even people you had considered friends before break off contact, even if you have kept all PTSD-topics away from them. Social isolation and loneliness make this thing even harder, you feel more defective with this kind of reaction than you already do."

"People are dumb… you know that."

"But it hurts nevertheless, and it's almost as bad as a flashback or a panic attack… Besides… PTSD makes you loose your trust in everything. It's like the world had turned wrong. Things that you consider valuable loose their meaning, there is only darkness… and the total awareness of every waking minute that bad things will happen and are heading your way… Like you know your parents will die one day and you spend thirty years in fearing exactly that… Never able to loose the fear… and you know you might get into a car crash if you get into traffic in whatever way and every time you enter a car, bus or cab you remember that. PTSD makes the world turn dark and will never be the same again… unrecoverable. It's like being a little child who isn't the same after truly understanding for the first time in life what it means to die. Innocence lost. You have seen the dark and you never loose the memory of it. Every minute of your life constantly aware that in the next moment everything could be broken and death is lingering… No rest, no comfort, no light, no escape. Whenever you say 'see you' to somebody you wonder if you ever see him again. The realization that there is no safeness in life… the only sure thing is death… and that the next bad thing is just around the corner. And the ironic thing is: this state eventually kills lots of PTSD patients. The ability to ignore the approach of death or just bad things in general, that a normal mind has to function normally, is lost. It's not possible any longer to just enjoy something. Panic attacks are just the inordinateness of this constant condition, like a spike."

"What can I do to help if …" Sherlock started. Why was John talking about this in third-person?

"I don't know, Sherlock… honestly… I am at a loss there myself. Usually a doctor tells family members to go with what they feel is right and comfort the patient, but I doubt you'd know how to try or would bother to even try to comfort me, so… I don't even know myself, none comforted me so far. The therapist tried, but that feels.. not honest… Being able to receive care depends on the person trying to give. …Usually the family is a person's choice. Not mine, though… I can't talk about these things with Harry. …So I can't tell you what might help… and even if there was a thing a person did once that was good… it wouldn't mean it would be good if _you_ did it... Do you understand any of that…?"

"Guess most of it…"

"You're sure?" John looked as if doubting it.

"You mean like I don't want to be touched, but when _you_ do it at least I don't feel the urge to run away… because it's _you_?" Had he told John this before? Opening up a bit himselft might be good for this conversation.

"Yeah… you got it right…" John took a deep breath, looking more distressed now. "Family members are told not to do anything that the patient doesn't want in the situation… and listen when he voices something… espacially dislikes."

"Okay…"

"Can we continue this conversation later, it's getting to much right now…"

"Okay." Sherlock agreed again… His own tone reminding him of Molly. His thoughts were now chasing each other. "If something would come to your mind that might help, would you be able to ask me for it?… I ask because I myself would have severe problems with that." Sherlock offered a little more insight into his own psyche in exchange for John's openness… John had criticized weeks ago that entrusting somebody with his feelings who didn't trust him with their's was really a bad thing in a friendship. Sherlock had understood that, mostly.

"I don't know, Sherlock… the past days were kind of a setback… ask me later, if you are still interested, my mind is too empty right now."

 

 

They entered the outskirts of London.

Sherlock felt repulsed by himself now. John didn't deserve a friend like him. How had he become so reckless?… He knew… it was probably a coping mechanism… and he had started it in full conscience a long time ago. Let nothing in so nothing can hurt you… and everyone will hurt you sooner or later.

He had been hurt a lot in his youth, had been called a freak, had been made fun of, had been used because of his honesty and not-understanding of the nasty aspects of human nature. He had been constantly misunderstood and always been blamed for that and for others not understanding him, because he was so weird. He had learned to shield himself and killed his desideratum to care and to receive care long years ago.

Now he had hurt another one with it. One he had no intention to hurt. But ignorance could do much more hurt that bad words, some intelligent person had said once… and he was guilty of that ignorance now.

"Sherlock, why didn't we go by train? Wasn't that the plan?"

"I though you might… be more comfortable with… privacy…" Sherlock explained.

"You were right." There was a hint of a smile, though John still looked depressed and exhausted.

 

They had a decent meal for dinner after unpacking the car. John was slowly regaining his composure and seemed to relax while cooking.

Sherlock felt the need to play the violin after John had sat down on his computer, checking for new emails.   
When John went to bed he was still playing… maybe trying to soothe them both while he sorted through all the new information placing them in the right databases, storing copies in his mental filecabinets and created cross reference and alert-tags.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:   
> I was diagnosed with PTSD six years ago after quite an odyssey and eight years of trying to cope with it alone, without knowing what I was dealing with. The last two years of that being treated by unskilled (in the field of PTSD) threapists for depression, which was more than counterproductive.   
> I am grateful that a lot has changed about treatment and awareness of PTSD and depression in society over the past years, though it's still far from enough. I am glad and grateful this thing is part of the BBC-series because this might help change society's way to look at depression and this kind of disorder, which would help the people suffering from it.   
> Everybody experiences the sympthoms different and there are quite a lot.   
> I don't have any medical knowledge, just the stuff you learn by having to cope with it.   
> The approach how to treat PTSD seems to be different in countries all over the world and even in clinics within one country.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a native speaker so I hope you forgive me my typos and grammar mistakes, or point them out.  
> Thank you for reading.  
> Constructive criticism welcome!


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